


Layers

by Metalkatt



Category: Red Dwarf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-21
Updated: 2008-03-21
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:25:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metalkatt/pseuds/Metalkatt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thoughts on clothing, and the analogies thereof.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Layers

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts on clothing, and the analogies thereof.

_**Fanfiction: Red Dwarf: Layers**_  
Title: Layers  
Rating: PG/FROC.  
Genre: General with tiny bits of possessiveness here and there.  
Pairing/Characters: Rimmer and Lister, mentions of the others.  
Length: Short  
Squicks: None  
Spoilers: Series VIII.  
Author's Notes: It bit me; what can I say? Many, _many_ thanks to [](http://hazeltea.livejournal.com/profile)[**hazeltea**](http://hazeltea.livejournal.com/) for beta. You helped more than you realise.  
Disclaimer: If they were mine, I wouldn't be where I am now, I'd be on Doug and Ed's backsides to get that film made... and I'd have lots of money from merchandising. So, since neither of these is true, they are obviously not mine.

  
Lister frowned at the pieces of cloth set out on his bunk, tipping his head as he tried to work out what they were for. He heard his bunkmate donning his own... whatever they were, and looked over his shoulder to get an idea of what went where. He saw the red band that fitted around the taller man's midsection and nodded to himself, reaching out to his bed, then stopped. Which piece was that? There was one piece with a point at one end, but Rimmer's didn't appear to have one of those. He couldn't find anything that looked right and sighed, turning around fully. "Rimmer, man, would you mind helpin' me get kitted out?"

"Not used to wearing clothes, are you? Disgrace to the species, as I've always said." The other man hadn't even looked up from running a cloth over his shoes, shining them to blinding reflectivity.

"Yeh, yeh, you're evolved, and I'm still a simian. You've been saying that for millennia." He schooled himself to have patience; the man with him now hadn't been through everything the others had, and hadn't had a chance to grow. "The bits and bobs that came in mine aren't the same as yours. I don't see anythin' like that corset you've got nipped 'round your waist, or that smeggy little bowtie."

Rimmer shook his head, finally looking up. "Wouldn't do on you. You've lost a bit of weight, I'll grant you that, but if you tried a cummerbund like this--" he tapped the red band of cloth before resting a fist on his hip "--you'd burst it like William Shatner after a heavy meal. Besides, you're short. No, a regular tie would make you look taller, draw attention away from your gut."

"You _sure_ you're not gay?" The darker man waved off the answering splutter and stepped back a bit, gesturing at his bunk. "I'm kiddin'; I'm kiddin'. Look, I admit, I don't know as much as you in this area, and I need your help getting redd up. And, it'll reflect well on you as a prisoner if you can be seen as helpin' me look and act respectable while we're servin' all those high-powered twonks." He grinned as he saw the man's jaw twitch; the illusion of a career was still firm in this one's mind, and he'd learned a fair bit of manipulation from the weaselly master himself.

"All right, fine, I'll help. Just remember to keep your trap shut while you're pouring drinks and swapping plates. First, get that jacket off. You need your waistcoat--it's that browny-maroon thing there. Where did you put your cufflinks?"

"Me what?" He slid the jacket off his shoulders and draped it over the little chair he'd come to claim as his own, on the far side of their table.

"Little shiny things that go on your sleeves--wait, stop, braces first. The elasticky things just there."

"I wonder how these things are supposed to get a bloke laid," Lister grumbled, looking over the braces. "If it's this hard to get 'em all on, imagine tryin' to take 'em off."

Rimmer flared his nostrils as he huffed, plucking the sad-looking accessory from his bunkmate's hand. "Just hold still," he grumbled. Lister could see the pale skin of his arms under the unfastened sleeves as his hands moved deftly, buttoning the elastic in place. "Once you get used to it, it's easy, and if you're just going to toss them everywhere like you do, they don't have to be undone all the way." He didn't apologise when Lister yelped as he fastened the other side, just worked to loosen the straps, de-constricting the trousers.

"Sound like you know a fair bit about it."

"When we turned seven, Father had miniature suits tailored for us, in every imaginable style. Well, made once, refitted for the others. I just worked with what was left when it was my turn, of course. We had to learn to get in and out of them, or we wouldn't get anything to eat. He didn't want us making a mess of them."

"Like the astronavigation questions," Lister breathed softly, understanding.

"Ye--when did I tell you that?" Lister nearly stepped back from the sharp look, but remembered to keep his place.

"The other Rimmer did. He told me a lot of the smegged-up crap your parents did to you. Often wished I could go back and slap some sense into 'em, yanno?" He shook his head. "How long'd it take you?"

"Arms out," came the instruction, as Rimmer showed the waistcoat and held it up to help Lister don it. "Couple weeks. I ate between trussings, and sneaked down into the kitchen at night sometimes. The housekeeper was a pudgy, blue-haired, deaf old bat, and she liked to turn her soap operas up so she could hear them. Being such a lightweight, I was able to tiptoe by. Once I'd proved I could do something well, I got decent treatment for a time, until I failed again."

"It all sounds so horrible." He got a glimpse of green-speared brown as the former technician favoured him with a quick glance.

"It was horrible. But, I made it through." He stepped back, looking up on the bunk. "Cufflinks?"

"I thought maybe they were supposed to be earrings. Bit painful lookin', though." He fished them out from the top of his locks where he'd stashed them, giving them a quick wash and dry before handing them over. "But, if you think about it, just making it through all that was a success. I mean, they could've killed you, yeh? You could've run away. But, you made it through, and went on to keep on livin'."

"You call this living, then?" Long fingers finagled the gold into the sleeve closures with ease.

"No, I call _this_ gettin' by. What we did on the Dwarf after the crew died, what we did on Starbug, that was livin'. Answerin' to nobody, makin' our own destiny, what we could of it. And I'll tell you, after some of those first prison rations, I started missin' Kryten's cultured fungus and dandelions. Sometimes, though, you've gotta take a couple years of gettin' by to get onto livin'. The other Rimmer figured that out, and I'm sure you will, too."

That provoked a sigh. "You talk about him as if he were your best mate. As if somehow, a computer simulation, a copy of me was a better me than I am."

"Technically, you're a copy yourself," Lister reminded him. "The first Rimmer died, and went off to whatever reward Karma had in store. Rimmer Mark Two is off shaggin' the galaxy's brains out, until someone hits his light bee, and he dies again, just like the innumerable other Aces around that planet of death. Now, you're Rimmer Mark Three. You're made of the same stuff the other two were, and you get to choose this new course of your life. Maybe you'll learn that it's okay to have fun, and if you're going to make a life out of cocking up, you can cock it up in the best way imaginable."

"And maybe _you'll_ learn that there's something to order and method."

"Of course there is. You have to have a method when you order your drinks, see, or you'll lose count of whose round it is." He saw the twitch of Rimmer's lip and grinned widely. "Was that a smile?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Now, hand me your tie."

"You're not gonna strangle me with it, are ya?"

"And get myself stuck in the tank for the rest of my life? No, thanks. Go stand in front of the mirror." Rimmer nodded in that direction, running the silk through his hands. Lister complied, watching his cellmate come up behind him. He felt and observed as the man fiddled with his collar, lifting it up to drape the tie before flipping it neatly back down. He closed his eyes halfway as Rimmer fitted himself against the Scouser's back, concentrating more on the touch than the knot. He remembered the Dream with a capital D, as he'd designated it, and the others that had come after it. It'd been ages since he'd simply been able to focus on having Rimmer around and quiet and near, and he revelled in it. He only half-saw the motions of the man's hands, his dark sleeves hanging undone over the wrists.

It was over too quickly, and Rimmer took him by the shoulders to turn him about, straighten the tie's knot, before buttoning the waistcoat over it. "Why is my shirt white, and yours grey?" Lister wondered aloud, unable to keep the inane remark from slipping past his lips.

"Skintone." Hazel eyes flicked toward the chair. "Now, the jacket. Make sure the cuffs of your sleeves show three-eighths of an inch below your jacket sleeves."

"I'm not gonna measure 'em, just tell me if it's done right. And what d'you mean, 'skintone?'"

Another huffed sigh, and Rimmer stepped forward to fiddle with the other man's cuffs as he settled the jacket into place. "Tone variance. Your white shirt contrasts with your dark skin. The dark waistcoat and tie contrast with the white shirt. The lighter charcoal over that, another contrast. It gives you the illusion of depth. The shoes they gave you are matte, thank heavens, since you couldn't keep a shine on anything for ten seconds." He stepped back, surveyed the effect, and nodded. "Well, now you can pretend to be human. Might want to find a way to pin your locks up. You don't want them falling in someone's wineglass."

Lister frowned to himself and nodded, watching as the man returned to the items lying in his own jacket. He turned back to the mirror, still frowning, gathering his locks in his hand as he fiddled with them. He'd just worked out how to loop them shorter when the door opened, and Chopper stepped briefly inside.

"Five minutes, you lot."

Rimmer stepped up to nudge him over, checking his part, then his bowtie. "Don't hog the mirror, gimboid. Stick you in a suit, and suddenly you're as bad as the Cat."

Lister held up his hands as he stepped back, giving the man some room. "Hey, hey, I'm not as bad as all that. I _use_ the mirror; he tries to make love to it."

"I did not need that image in my head, thank you very, very much." One side of his lip curled in derision, nose wrinkling as he turned away to check his own cuffs.

"You? Kryten used to have to clean the mirrors in the crew quarters. It was horrible. So, are we ready, then? Still got three more minutes."

"As ready as we'll ever be, I sup--what the?"

Lister ignored the confused splutter as he drew the other man in for a hug. He didn't push anything else, just stood there and held on despite Rimmer's obvious discomfort.

"Oh my god, you've gone space crazy. Let me go."

"Don't flatter yourself, smeg'ead. Everyone needs one of these sometimes. It's not gonna undo anythin' your parents did to mess you up, but still... it is, now. For what it's worth." He didn't say anything else, just held on until he heard the guards' footsteps approaching, then backed off to allow them to adjust their jackets. He gestured for Rimmer to precede him out the door, and repressed a little smile. For just a moment, Rimmer had begun to hug him back.


End file.
